


Terror Mini-fics and One Shots

by Wolfermann



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: All The Ships, Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One Shot, Trauma, everyone lives au, its the Franklin Expedition there is no happiness, lectures on watercolors as an anti sodomy tool, light cannibalism, maybe some fluff, or just slight happiness, pre-terror history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 06:26:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14889360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfermann/pseuds/Wolfermann
Summary: A collection of one shots and mini-fics featuring the men of HMS Erebus and Terror completed from Tumblr requests.





	1. Fitzjames/Crozier

11\. things you said when you were drunk

Another night passed on this cursed expedition, another night spent drinking too much whiskey with Captain Francis Crozier. Their evenings together grew more and more sparse as time went on, not that Francis was fond of James companionship from the beginning.

The younger man spent their few moments of silence with a furrowed brow, trying to unravel the mystery that was Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, what was he getting out of this expedition? James wore his intentions on his sleeve, like many other officers who volunteered their service to this expedition he was there for glory, to rise above his station, but Crozier shied away from it all. The glory of a good pudding echoed in his brain, a conversation between a ghost of a man now.

His heart still ached for Sir John Franklin. He finished his cut glass and relished in the burn. He wasn’t a whiskey man but Francis was stubborn and picked what they drank. All James had to do was smile and provide the liquor from Erebus’ store.

What truly pleased this type of man? Besides the company of his unfortunate steward, Thomas Jopson, the ships dog Neptune, and alcohol, nothing seemed to lighten the man from his dark moods. James felt increasingly alone, as the weather worsened, and the  
communication between the two ships dwindled. It often felt like they were worlds away when they stood only a mile or more apart.

James only wished his thoughts weren’t filled with the Irishman. His laugh, his mannerism, the spark in his icy eyes when his jaw is clenched and his fists ready to make contact with Fitzjames skin.

Once he admitted to Le Vesconte, his dear friend of nearly a decade, how he enjoyed riling up the other man just to see him come alive. Vesconte pointedly stated that James was always quick to fall in love with men who were ill suited for him. Maybe he was, maybe Vesconte was right, the bastard, James cursed. Was it love? To crave the hoarse bark of a laugh at a well told joke? To wish for his private company and attention? To desire the clash of their teeth, the taste of blood in his mouth as they clawed at one another like two gladiators fighting for dominance?

James needed another drink. He extended his glass out for Francis to pour as if he were his steward. The man obliged, already far gone himself. He looked at the younger man with a quirked brow and a half smile on his face.

“You’ve been quiet for once, James.” His Irish accent grew more pronounced when he was loosened like this.  
“Well I could always tell you one of my war stories, Francis.” He grinned as his fellow officer let out the most pained of groans.

“I’d rather take on the bloody bear myself than listen to your Chinese sniper story again!” James always the mimic, placed a hand on his chest, exaggerating a sigh.

“You wound me worse than the sniper ever could but your words don’t make as capital of a story.” Turning the mans words against him, Francis laughed but avoided James’ eyes. He was the type to apologize when it was far too late, usually after they were spent and either man was packing up to leave the others small cabin.

“Perhaps. Your love for melodrama may just be your last story. But I hope you live to tell your tale.” James mentally noted how there was a disturbing lack of the other Captain in that sentence. Was he anticipating himself perishing before the end of their venture? The gravity of his words sunk in, making his stomach churn. Before he could help himself he let his thoughts slip forth before he could bite his own tongue.

“Do not abandon me out here, Francis.” His cheeks turning rosy at the quiet weight of his plea, he heard the Irishman shift in his seat to look at him, sobering if only a little.

“I’m not going anywhere, James.” He finally spoke, quietly. Fitzjames could not bring himself to look at him, taking another quick drink to collect himself. He nearly jumped when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was as close to a tender moment both men could experience and it ended as soon as it began. James felt exposed but Francis always had a way of seeing through him.

“Come to bed with me, Francis.” James pushed himself up and out of his seat, abandoning the glass for Bridgens to take care of later or Francis to finish in his haste to join him. He may be distant, they may tear themselves apart, but James had Francis for a moment. At least for a night.


	2. Collins/Jopson

Henry Collins felt like the world was closing in on him. Every breath, every movement felt like external pressure was going to suffocate his body. Like the tight squeeze on his dive suit when he descended too far, the tight thick material crushing him. He was panicking again out on the ice, this was the third time this week he felt an attack come on. Hysteria, the doctors called it. Stanley had been pointed in calling it a woman’s issue, much to Henry’s shame. He was just thankful he was alone, left to menial work while they found ways to waste time out in the arctic. God help him if he lived through this, he would never come back, he would never touch a dive suit again. 

The smell was the worst. The grease of the helmet filled his brain in the early hours of the morning, he seemed to sleep less and less now, and any dream he had was filled with the images of the dead, the bear, icy bodies floating towards him with twisted expressions on their face. The smell was the worst, it sent him into instant fright, heart hammering away in his chest as he couldn’t get it out of his brain. It brought his night terrors to life and reduced the once confident man to a mess. Was this what losing you mind felt like? He truly felt sometimes he belonged in bedlam and that scared him the most, the loss of control over his own body. 

The worst thing of all was that everyone had started to avoid him. Collins spent most of his free time in a small corner of Erebus with a wood carving or a knitting project, something to keep his hands busy and mind steady but the darker the arctic became, the less interested he was in finishing anything. He found himself messing up more and more now, little cuts on his large hand indicative of the slip ups. Brain freezes and fuzziness was what men were starting to call it. He wasn’t alone but he felt like he was adrift at sea in a storm of his own creation. 

“Mister Collins?” A soft voice called for him, startling him from his self-induced misery. Collins ran a gloved hand across his eyes, trying to hide the evidence of his weakness to the passerby. It was Terrors steward, Thomas Jopson, a rare sight out of the ship and on the ice. He was usually tending to the melancholic Captain or organizing something aboard for the officers. They had talked in passing before but seeing Collins like this brought him to blush out of shame. 

“S-sorry. Is there somethin’ I can do for you, Jopson?” A rung his hands together, refusing to look into his eyes. He had started avoiding others gaze months ago, it felt safer this way. 

“Don’t worry yourself, Mister Collins. I’m just on an errand for the Captain. Is everything alright?” There was concern in the stewards’ voice, making Henry want to curl up and die somewhere where he wouldn’t bother anyone anymore. Nothing was alright. Nothing was okay but he lied. 

“Course, sir. Don’t mind me-.” Before he could finish, Jopson, the saint that he was had wrapped his arms around the bigger man in a gentle but reaffirming hug. Collins had forgotten how good a hug could feel from someone who didn’t appear to judge him for his weakness. He clung to the steward in disbelief, noting how he smelled of fresh linen and some tonic that kept his dark hair in place. 

Jopson pulled away after a moment, keeping a hand on his shoulder while smiling at him. Collins looked up into his bright eyes, for a moment he wasn’t afraid.

“It’s going to be alright, Mister Collins. Will you help me find something in Erebus’ store, I’m afraid I’m a bit lost.” 

“W-with pleasure, Mister Jopson.”


	3. Jopson/Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major spoilers for the show, Character death warning

22\. things you said after it was over

Edward Little felt like he had been punched in the gut, with air rushing out of his lungs. They were seriously going to abandon Crozier in his hour of need and head back to Terror camp? Henry T.D Le Vesconte only shrugged as he explained the other officers proposition. No one was holding a gun to his head demanding he went with him, they offered him a chance to stay or go off on a mission by himself that surely meant his own demise. He felt a sickening twist of his own words against him, the idea of abandoning the sick was not new to him, and how he begged Captain Crozier to leave Fitzjames behind (Le Vesconte had never forgiven him for that).  
The choice was simple, return to Terror camp and live a little longer, or die out in the cold. 

Edward Little wanted to live but he had made a promise. They gave him time to think over his decision, a night to pack up and care for the ill before leaving them to die alone in the barren arctic land, unburied and forgotten. 

Little took the time to sit with Thomas Jopson, long gone from the effects of scurvy, delusional and whimpering. It broke his heart to see such a dignified man fall so far. He used to watch Jopson wake early before the Captain and Officers on Terror to preen himself, comb every strand of hair into a perfect neat part. Little would rise from bed to wrap his arms around the steward’s waist, kissing his neck as he dressed in an immaculate suit. He would push the Lieutenant away with a smile on his face, instructing him to go back to bed. He remembered those mornings together with tears in his eyes. He looked dirty, unshaved and hair a mess. Sweat pooled on his forehead, as he weakly moaned in pain. 

“Thomas. Thomas I’m so sorry.. I’m not abandoning you, Crozier hasn’t abandoned you,” He pleaded to a dying man, a lover. Maybe it fell on deaf ears, or maybe in his feverish state, Jopson could hear him. He hoped the latter for his conscious couldn’t bear it if he thought Little would have done this with malicious intent. “I wish I could find a way to help you. You deserve to live more than any man out here. I’m sorry, Thomas. I.. Love you..” He choked. Tear streaming down his windburned face. He held the stewards hand, bowing his head to hold it to his cheek one last time.

He stayed with him all evening, combing back Jopson’s hair into place, dabbing away beads of sweat and holding a cool cloth to his face. He silenced every moan and spasm of pain with a quiet praise. He wished Bridgens had not gone for they had lost the last competent man in medicine. Jopson had yet to come to but just as the sun rose, he opened his eyes to gaze at the Lieutenant one last time. His beautiful green eyes bloodshot and hazy. It was as suitable of a goodbye as he would expect. 

Little joined the survivors with a heavy heart for the walk back to Terror Camp. He wanted to look back, almost expecting Jopson to be standing there, smiling softly with a project in his hands. But he knew he would not be there. Le Vesconte lead the call, pulling the meager boat along to safety. 

Edward could have sworn that he heard Thomas call for them as they walked away.


	4. Hickey/Irving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning of some explicit language, mentions of sexual content. Minor spoilers for the show 
> 
> This also somehow became a Hickey/Gibson fic too.

10\. things you said that made me feel like shit

Lt. John Irving had been stalking him across _Terror_ ever since he discovered his little mishap with Gibson. But Hickey had been right, the man had yet to go running towards Captain Crozier screaming sodomite and when he tried he was met with the sight of his fox like grin sharing a drink with the lush leader of the ship. That shut the man up for a while but Hickey knew he wouldn’t be satisfied, not until he had a word with him, or two.

It was no surprise to him when Irving caught him on the ice, cornering him while they worked in the cold. As officer approached him silently, Hickey could feel his eyes trace the curvature of his back as he worked bent over caulking away at the outside of Terror. He stood up straight as the intensity of his gaze refused to lapse. He felt like he was about to receive the scolding of a lifetime.

“Lieutenant Irving. I was hoping we’d meet,” Hickey chirped first, voice low so as not to rouse the interest of the men working nearby. He worked his charms on the man, starting slow knowing how rosy his cheeks appeared and how sweetly he could tempt the man, at least to his side. But Hickey sensed John Irving was a filthy fucking liar, at least to himself. “I wanted to thank you for your help- for your discretion, I mean.”

“Call it anything but help, Mister Hickey,” Irving cut him off in his haste. He appeared to have already rehearsed his words before speaking with him. _Jesus buggering Christ_. “I-I exercise clemency for a man abused by a devious seducer. And it also benefited you in that it’s a sin in itself, I’m sure.” _Devious what_? Hickey blinked, then frowned, wishing for a laugh or a jest thrown his way but Irving remained firm and serious.

“Devious seducer?” He interjected, hoping to be informed of where that decision had come from. As far as he knew, he had only buggered one man on this expedition and allowed himself to be buggered by the same individual.

“Yes. Mister Hickey. Mister Gibson told me everything,” _That fucking bitch_. Gibson had been slinking around the ship, avoiding Cornelius since the incident. His breath hitched as he recounted the caulkers sins. “How you pressed him into service, threatened to expose him should he ever refuse you.”

“I pressed him?” He let out an exasperated laugh, truly Gibson had to be the dumbest cunt in the world to ever speak of him like that. Gibson was the one who approached him to begin with, offer the other a cigarette and a broken smile, one Hickey had adored until this very moment in time. But things didn’t matter, _they_ didn’t matter.

“Love. Turn your wolf’s ear to me now and here or the next piece of council on the subject may be given at the end of the cat-o-nines.” The raw passion that filled Irving as he spoke caused the caulker mate to shift slight backwards. Before this the officer was another nuisance among a sea of idiots but in this moment, he actually feared Irving might overtake him. Either pin him to the nearest surface and have at him or to strike him down. Hickey responded with a short nod, knowing the threat stilled loomed over him as Irving waited for his response, watching his every move with those wicked brown eyes.

“We are separated here, from the temptations of the world. And see that a man can find spiritual benefit in the collective. It is no accident that the world was born clean out of an ark, Mister Hickey. Man’s worst urges can be satisfied through Christian pleasures and graces… singing with friends, watercolors, study, climbing exercises.”

“Climbing, sir?” _Was he serious_? Was this man lecturing him on the benefits of painting instead of taking cock? Irving spit back, irritated with the challenge to his distractions;

“Your crisis is an opportunity to repair yourself. You are in the world’s best place for it.” They let a heavy silence loom in the air between them. Fat snowflakes fell, catching in his auburn hair. Their breath came out in foggy puffs as both waited for the other to bend. Hickey knew what he had to do. “Do you think so?” “God sees you, Mister Hickey,” Irving whispered, leaning too close to the shorter man for comfort. “Here more than anywhere.” He walked away quickly as a chill ran down the caulker mate’s spine. He stood drinking in the officer’s words, feeling more raw and exposed than he wished to be. He would lick his wounds and have a few pointed words with Gibson on this but he knew exactly what he had to do. Hickey was used to playing different roles, he was playing his most challenging one yet as Cornelius the Irish caulker mate. But in turn he would play Irving like a fiddle. A smile crossed his face as he hatched a plan, a slow burn of one but the Lieutenant would never intimidate him again for it.


	5. Hickey/Tozer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief sexual content mentioned, with a light side of cannibalism and general spoilers for the rest of the series

35\. "I told you not to fall in love with me"

“I told you not to fall in love with me.” Solomon Tozer hung his head in shame, face burning with frustration as the caulker mate stalked wildly back and forth within their small tent. Tozer had never seen Cornelius Hickey so cross in his life, he was practically raving in frustration with the Marine. 

“I. Told. You,” He hissed, getting in the man’s face. Hickey’s breath reeked of dried blood and tobacco smoke and made his stomach tighten into knots. Why he had felt the need to confess his devotion to the red headed man, he did not know but it spilled out of him like he had been split open. “And you were so stupid to not even try!” 

Tozer could hear the men shift outside their small camp comprised of rotten deserters, mutineers, and their captives, all listening in fear or curiosity to what their ring leader had to say. Oh bugger off. He was already feeling low enough as it is. First there was Heather, the fire, the death of their rescue effort, the tins, the filthy fucking liars of Captains, and finally the great beast itself. He saw the bear steal Henry Collins soul straight from his body. He was never religious man but it brought him back to his church going days when the wary pastor would warn the congregation of the evils of a beast controlled by Satan himself. He laughed it off until he saw it for himself not a week ago. It still haunted him, turning a proud soldier into a sniveling child quaking in his boots. 

The one thing keeping him going in this piss poor situation was the rat faced caulker mate with the devilish tongue and sweetest of smiles. He knew he had struck the wrong kind of deal with the man when he agreed to his first grab for power, but with a few meetings in private, some clever words, and the clashing of two bodies against one another, Tozer was swayed to his sirens song. He didn’t even fancy men, but he fancied Cornelius Hickey. 

The first night they met, enjoying fresh tobacco rolled into a cigarette with the caulkers expertise, Hickey made him promise never to betray him and to never fall in love with him, for whatever they became, the man could never love him back. This was going to be short venture. They make it through the passage, jump off at the nearest tropical island, and make love in the hot sand under the shade of a palm. It was far too obvious to everyone now that the Northwest Passage was the biggest lie of all, they were doomed from the start.

Now he sat looking like a fool, pieces of William Gibson still fresh on his lips as he took a scolding from his master. Hickey grew more worked up over his lack of answer, pushing the blond man’s head roughly as he walked passed him. Solomon felt wet tears fall down his windburned face. He loved the caulker mate, but he was a chump for thinking it could have ever played out any other way. All the time spent together was just part of survival, it was always about survival for the two of them. Now he had killed, stolen, robbed, and even cannibalized a man for the caulker mate. He had truly fallen so far. 

“I-I’m sorry.” He spoke, barely above a whisper, heart like a lump in his chest. Tozer knew he was going to die out there, unloved and forgotten. The bear and its human eyes made sure he knew he would be the next soul he would collect from this earth. 

Hickey let out an exasperated sigh, long and dramatic as the man’s patience was already so thin. Solomon couldn’t help but flinch when two cold and dirty hands cupped his face, forcing him to look up to his leader. A ghost of a smile passed over the caulker mates cracked lips, he still looked so handsome for a man starving and effected by arctic disease.  
“No crying, Solly. No use in that, love. I forgive you.” Solomon felt warm again to his own sickening delight, Hickey had always been there to play him like a fiddle but then again, he was the one who loved being played. He nuzzled into those hands, lavishing the moment of contact before they receded. The caulker mate turned to exit the canvas tent but hesitated. He pondered for a moment, stroking his bearded chin before eyeing him as if he was trying to make up his mind on some matter. Was he going to kill him like he did Gibson? Lt. John Irving? But Gibson was a mercy and Irving was revenge. He reassured himself. 

“Do not fail me again, Tozer.” Hickey quirked a mad grin before leaving him to clean up his own mess, it was the man’s last mercy gifted to Solomon Tozer.


	6. Fitzjames/Crozier Pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor explicit language (it's sailors in the 19th century), and plenty of fluff

108\. “I didn’t want you to see this.”

“I didn’t want you to see this,” Francis Crozier groaned, pulling up his blankets to cover his sweaty and miserable face. “In fact, if I remember correctly, James, I ordered you to leave me the hell alone.” James Fitzjames smiled down at the Captain, despite making a promise to the older man as he withdrew from the bottle, he had let his curiosity get the better of him. It had been nearly two weeks since he heard a whisper of Francis’ condition. He came to him that night to briefly remove Jopson from his station (and boy did the stewards not enjoy his dismissal from duty!)

“You may ask Le Vesconte, but I’m not very good at taking orders when the man I love is involved.” James sat in the cramped cabin, taking a well-worn rag from a well-placed bowl of water, squeezing it before dabbing it gently to the older man’s brow. Francis groaned softly, like a child with an aching belly. His body most likely ached beyond what the younger man could even imagine. “Man you love, eh? Piss poor time to tell me, James.” The once dignified Captain wheezed, nearly bending him in two. James’ quickly forced him back straight in bed. Francis looked up at him with bloodshot blue eyes, he was in living hell all for the continuation of their expedition. He remained seated with his knees on the floor, using one hand to cool Crozier’s face, the other to rub his chest in soft circles.

“I did tell you before this but-,” but they were both drunk, and lord was this not the proper thing to say to a man overcoming an addiction. “But it does not matter now. I’m filling in for Jopson this evening, the last time I saw him he was scurrying around trying to eat from one of the tins while press your shirts simultaneously. Really that lad deserves a promotion after all of this.” James smiled even more as Francis let out a hoarse laugh. Francis looked so much older than he remembered, so much weaker. In an instant he had gone from the melancholic dignitary next door to a shell of a man, fighting himself. Fitzjames felt pangs of guilt for the grief he had caused him over the years, how he aided his addiction. “He just might get one yet.” Francis wet his lips, situating himself to face James.

“Tell me a story, and not your Chinese sniper story or the bird shite island story. I don’t wanna know what’s been going around here. If you’re going to stay and look at me like this, I need it.” The younger man scoffed playfully at him. He loved the man’s adamant detest for his favorite war stories, and he delighted in tormenting Francis with it to no end. “Have I ever told you the tale of how I owned a cheetah for some time, our ships mascot? Really Le Vesconte owned the beast since he purchased it off a wealthy Ottoman trader.” “You owned a cheetah?” Francis raised one brow at him in disbelief and minor bleak acceptance that Commodore James Fitzjames was exactly that type of man.

“Yes, I did. Co-owned and co-captained with it. You wanted a story, Francis, you best let me continue.”

* * *

 

James stayed with him for the rest of the evening, recounting tales from his personal repertoire and keeping the sick man in good spirits until he managed to sink into a restless sleep. The younger man, already exhausted from the weight of his responsibilities and the growing strain on his body, managed in besides Francis. Fitzjames was not as immortal as he had liked to think, as blotches of blood poured from his scalp at random times, a telling sign of the onset of scurvy. He was terrified for their future together, for the men of the expedition, and for himself. It’s partially why he sought out the Irishman that evening. Now curled up in the most awkward of positions, he felt at peace, even if the world seemed to be falling apart, the steady breath of his lover kept him whole.


	7. Peglar/Bridgens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally one of my favorite couples from the show. Warning: minor character death, discussion of trauma

60\. “Is that blood?” 

John Bridgens waited anxiously for the return of his young lover from the approaching search party, they were back early and everything seemed wrong. The stewards gripped a book he had been reading while Captains Fitzjames and Franklin were occupied. He waited, searching the crowd of frozen and tired men for the one Harry Peglar. They had been together for nearly twenty years, first as a mentor and student, then to friends, and finally to lovers. They took their time but after all, love was patient. It was by pure accident they ended up on the same expedition but on opposite ships. 

He searched the crowd for a familiar mop of reddish-brown hair but found him to no avail, making the older man panic even more. Where had his Harry gone? Then Bridgens felt a pair of familiar arms warp around his body and a shorter form press against him. His heart soared in his chest. He is here, he is safe. The older man turned to look at his lover, a soft smile on his worn lips fading the moment their eyes meet. Something has gone terribly wrong. 

“Is that blood?” Harry was covered in a layer of frozen snow and a dried crimson substance splattered across his cold weather clothing. His sweet brown eyes, bloodshot, tired and full of something he had never seen before; fear. 

“N-not mine. Someone else’s.” Even with the reassurance that he was unhurt, the older man knew Harry was suffering from an ordeal beyond his current understanding. Bridgens quickly pulled the sailor down below deck, no one noticed as they passed. Upon reaching his private quarters, he made quick work of getting Harry warmed and out of his sopping clothes. 

“Gore… It was.. Gore. And a bear of some kind. I don’t know but we had to leave in the night as we couldn’t stop. It was following us, John. I swear!” Bridgens quietly shushed the unraveling man, helping him sit on his small bunk. He cupped Harry’s sweet windburned face, rubbing his cold cheeks with his gloved thumbs. In all their time together, John believed that Peglar was the bravest man alive. He was Captain of the Foretop, he climbed to such extreme heights with nimble grace, taking weather readings or collecting aviary specimens without batting an eye. Now he sat trembling before him, not from the cold but the memory of their time out there. 

“I believe you, Harry. I believe you.” He softly cooed, moving to kneel between Peglars’ legs. Warm tears flooded out of those sad brown eyes, reminding him all too well of the illiterate and ashamed boy he first met so many years ago. Bridgens leaned in to gently kiss his younger lover, whispering on his lips, “I love you so much. You are safe here with me.” 

Peglar accepted him, quietly throwing his arms around John and connecting their foreheads together. They stayed like that for minutes, but what felt like hours after all the lost time between them. Harry is the first to pull away, using the sleeve of his dirty shirt to wipe his eyes and collect himself. Bridgens heart hurts for the man, it hurts for the dead officer he so lovingly served who had passed in the most terrible of ways, but he would make sure his Harry would never travel again without him. 

“Will you read to me, John?” The younger man whispered, a shy grin growing on his face. Bridgens shared in it before standing. 

“Of course, Harry. Gladly so.”


	8. Fitzjames/Crozier Pt.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An everyone survives Au :)

53\. “When I’m with you, I’m home.”

“When I’m with you, I’m home.” James whispers to the older man, as they find solace in their private quarters, gifted to them by Fitzjames eccentric foster brother upon their arrival back in England. It had been several months since they had been rescued from a painful death in the arctic. Francis Crozier had watched his fellow Captain nearly perish from before his eyes from his old wounds. He watched helplessly as the younger man’s body betrayed him. He had felt the effects of scurvy, the tiredness, the ache in his limbs, the sensitivity to noise. They were incredibly lucky for a month longer and they would not have been alive to meet their rescue party. 

Francis tried not to dwell on what could have happened when he had a healing Fitzjames in his arms. He was still incredibly weak and thin, he tired easily and needed to rest often during the day but he could keep down light food. The Irishman spent most of his waking hours fretting over his partner and dealing with the Admiralty (only one of those things of which he actually enjoyed.) 

Crozier counted down the days until he could be done with the arctic and the blasted navy. He had his retirement papers ready for the exact moment they would be done with the Franklin Expedition. In the meantime, he tended to James and planned their leave. The traffic of London, though ideal for a socialite like James but made Francis anxious, aching for more seclusion. Crozier suggested a country side cottage, somewhere by the sea, to which James’ agreed only if there was a town within walking distance nearby with some semblance of culture. If there was one thing they agreed on, they would go somewhere warm. 

“Hmm? What do you mean by that love?” The older man shifted onto his side, stroking James’ boney cheek. The younger man leaned into his touch, cognac brown eyes fluttering closed. 

“I have searched far and wide for a place I could call home. After I lost my adopted parents, along with my true father, I felt adrift. Even before then I knew I didn’t quite belong. I traveled with the navy, far and wide, to make a home of my own. It took me to the ends of the earth but I finally found it the day I met you, Francis.” The Irishman could not help but blush at the candor of James’ story. After all they had been through, he knew in his heart that his lover meant every word. After the day Fitzjames confessed his darkest secrets to him, tears pooling from his eyes as he reached out to him, Francis truly understood him and loved him even more. He found strength in the confidence of a man he once seemed to despise. 

Fitzjames appeared to be an arrogant, snobbish man, looking for approval from any older man in power that could give it to him. Francis saw through him from the beginning but it took him longer to see the real James beneath the façade; the sweet man searching for validation but in the process never learned to truly love himself. Perhaps he saw parts of himself in his lover, but he loved and treasured the man he was when they were alone like this. 

James continued softly, even with Francis’ silence; 

“I do not care where we go after this but I never wish to be apart from you.” The older man’s heart soared in his chest. Francis pressed their lips together softly, wrapping his fingers in the younger man’s soft brown curls. He pulled away to rest his forehead on James’, murmuring to him softly, 

“Then home we shall be.”


	9. Fitzjames/Le Vesconte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I finally got to indulge in my favorite rarepair. This one delves more into the pre-terror history of James Fitzjames and Henry T.D Le Vesconte. They actually all served in the Opium wars along with George Hodgson and it's most likely Dr. Stanley who operated on James.

Hurt prompts: "are you trying to give me a heart attack"

Henry T.D Le Vesconte rushed to the side of his best friend. Doctor Stephen Stanley had long since finished operating on him, telling the Lieutenant with a grim yet annoyed look that the man in question would survive and be awake over the course of the evening. Henry practically ran to him once dismissed from his station. He had watched in horror a single shot rang out and James Fitzjames crumpled before him like a piece of human parchment. He managed to take a single step before falling hard on the earthen floor. Truth be told, Henry did not know if James was going to live.

Clearly panicked, the silver haired man pushed his way through tents filled with the wounded and dying, causalities of another one of England’s senseless wars. Henry was focused, heart pounding in his chest and anxiety on high as he scanned the crowd for his beloved’s face. _God what if I’m too late?_ Wracked with concern, he truly feared the worst had become of the invincible James. But a familiar, yet dirty mop of chestnut curls proved otherwise.

“James? James, _mon amore_?” Henry sunk to the floor besides the cot containing his friend. James opened his eyes upon hearing his companion speak, a pained yet classic smirk on his chapped and blooded lips. The worst had yet to come but for now he was conscious and alert. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Henry couldn’t help himself, no longer fighting back tears of dread but now of relief.

“I’m not quite deceased, _mon cher_.” James managed to croak out, voice hoarse from the operation. He weakly reached out to Henry with his good arm, for his left had been bandaged and placed in a sling around his neck. The Frenchmen happily took it, pressing kisses to dirty and bloodied knuckles. He looked upon James as if he had never loved any one more in his entire life.

“Never do this to me again! I don’t think my heart could take it.” He playfully chided him, while the injured man laughed which quickly turned into seething from the vibration against his tender wounds. His James was a wild one, he would dive into oceans and cross over mountains, fight off bandits and evade capture by thugs, all for the recognition he thought he deserved. It all came at a great cost to his health. Henry mentally counted the injuries and near-death experiences they collected between them all before their thirties.

“I cannot make any promises but God himself will have to take me from you.” He grimaced, overexerting what little energy he had before the removal of the ball his spine. Henry gently shushed him, shaking his head at Fitzjames.  

“Please rest, I will be here to watch over you. And I will fight death off if I must,” He wiped his eyes on his stained uniform jacket before moving closely to press a kiss on his lover’s forehead.  “ _Je t'aime plus que tu ne le sauras jamais_.” The injured man did not have the energy to _protest_ , instead opting to shake his head and close his weary bloodshot eyes. He allowed himself to rest with the comfort of Vesconte beside him for now.

 _Even_ with more holes added to his body, Henry knew he could not slow his friend down from the path he was on. A bullet would temporarily inconvenience him and before he knew it, James would be marching towards his next adventure, beckoning Henry to join him wherever he desired. He had no qualms where they went or what they did so long as he was there to protect the adventurer from an early demise.

He had followed him across the globe already, for five years they had been companions, growing from fresh friends to lovers. In the blink of an eye James Fitzjames went from a budding young officer to the love of his life. In that moment, Henry sat in the dirt besides the cot in the middle of China and battle still blazing off in the distance but nothing else mattered except for the steady rise and fall of the injured man’s chest and the rasping of his breath. For now, he was safe under his watchful eye, as he made a silent promise to himself to never let Fitzjames this close to death ever again.   

 

*i love you more than you will ever know


	10. Collins/Orren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request:   
> c. "are you crying?", john bridgens & henry collins. no pairing, past collins/orren, side bridgens/peglar.

John Bridgens tended to the officer’s laundry with the ease and care of a man who had been a steward for many years. Most young men in his position complained of the work but Bridgens took it as an escape from the hustle and bustle accompanied by life on a ship. It was his time besides late night in his bunk to do as he pleased; construct letters to his beloved Henry a whole ship away, read his newest book, or even produce his own poetry. It was supposed to be a time of peace but not today.

John had just set the wash out to dry when he heard what could only be muffled crying coming from the storeroom nearby. His back straightened, gripping onto his latest read tightly as he tried to distinguish who it may be and if he should get involved. He didn’t want to embarrass the poor lad, everyone had their moment of weakness, but he didn’t want to startle the person as well. Quietly he crept towards the hidden man.

“Are you crying?” The older man asked, finally getting a view of the hidden crier: Mate Henry Collins. Collins was a big man with a warm smile, he had many friends on the ship and was universally loved but now he sat curled in on himself in his own agony. His eyes were blood shot, heavy tears staining the sweater that he tugged at to calm himself. He looked miserably up at the steward, trying to get some form of explanation out but only letting out a whine. Bridgens didn’t have to guess what could be upsetting the young man, William Orren was dead and Collins had been on deck watching him plunge to an icy grave.

“He’s in a good place now. I-it was a bad accident, something you couldn’t help.” Bridgens placed a calming hand on Collins shoulders, feeling them sink to the touch. Men fell from the masts often, it’s what he feared most when he saw his nimble Henry crawling high in the foretop or even sprawled out in a tree looking for birds. Collins wouldn’t be the only man mourning the loss of the sailor but he had a feeling the man had meant something more to him.

“I-I could have. I could have done something- Des Voeux kept me from saving him. I’m a strong swimmer and could’ve grabbed him!” Collins rocked himself gently, already on the verge of hysterics.

“You would have died, son. Then we would have two men gone on _Erebus_.” Even as he spoke it, Bridgens knew that Collins wanted nothing more than to perish besides Orren. The only thing the steward thought to do was wrap his arms around the distressed man and help him through his pain. He had never lost a lover like this but he would support him, in their shared secret of being two homosexual men within the Navy. No officer would give him time to mourn but they had enough to put the broken man back together, at least enough to carry out his duty. Collins clung to him, burying his face into the older man’s uniform.

“I loved him.” He whispered into Bridgens’ chest.

“I know. But you have to carry on. For William-.”

“He liked being called Billy.” Collins whimpered, sucking in a deep breath in attempts to steady himself.  

“Then for Billy then. Live for him, Collins. He wants us to reach the passage.” The younger man simply nodded and allowed himself to be lulled into a calm while Bridgens kept hold of him for as long as he was afforded before Commander Fitzjames came calling for him. They had taken a sick man back from dinner aboard _Terror_ and certainly news of Orren had traveled. Reluctantly the steward let go of the distressed man, flashing him a closed sympathetic smile.

“Carry on, Mister Collins.”  

“Thank you, Mister Bridgens.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I haven't updated this in so long, I'm sorry lol.


	11. Charles Des Voeux/George Hodgson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: deshodge w/ “I’ll take you home.”
> 
> one of my favorite rare pairs ;3

George Hodgson grew wary of his current company and longed to retire back to his cabin or be anywhere else than trapped in polite conversation with his fellow officers. He missed the days where Fitzjames and Crozier were not quarreling over petty manners long enough to have decent dinner with the eccentric man’s wild stories. Crozier barely wanted company anymore, choosing his steward and drink over the men devoted to his command. George did not take it as personally as the others, he was not the type to clamor for the Captain’s affections anyways. But today was different. They had sent over the newly appointed officer Charles Des Voeux to dinner with Lieutenant Le Vesconte.

The two seemed to be like two peas in a pod recently, always taking magnetic measurements together and conversing in their native tongue. What he would give to have an evening together with the two of them and a bottle of wine where they could converse in French and discuss culture, instead of whatever bible verse Irving was fixated on and the occasional grunt from Little, who hardly ever spoke a word and looked incredibly miserable for every moment he was awake.

More importantly he wanted to be alone with Charles.

During dinner he shared glances with those amber eyes, gently brushing hands under the table. He worried on the darkest of days that Des Voeux would forget him, forget their history together, run off with another man, or perhaps claim a more worthy sweetheart. But he never did. During the China War, he found himself entranced by the Frenchman, his sour face always twisted into the cutest of smile whenever he was near. It made his heart flutter remembering their first embrace after a particular battle, one where he wasn’t sure they were going to return home. George wanted to be chaste with his kiss in the darkness of their shared tent but his gentlemanly manner quickly dissolved while pressed against such a beauty of a man.

He sighed quietly to himself at the memory. It had been a delightful surprise that they both were appointed to the Franklin Expedition right after the war, but fate seemed to play cruel games with Hodgson, placing his beloved on another ship. He felt worlds away some days but they kept in contact between meetings and letters slipped quietly back and forth. George always a romantic at heart kept his tucked under his pillow to reread before bed.

As dinner service wrapped up, Gibson pulling the last of the plates from them, he decided to jump at the chance for a moment alone. Le Vesconte had mentioned he wanted to try his hand at chess with Little so he finally inserted himself into the conversation, smiling charmingly at Charles.

“I’ll take you home.” Hodgson could see a smile tug at Des Voeux’s pink lips, they were the color of fresh tulips in the spring. How much poetry could he devote to the man and knowing Charles he would be appreciative.

“At your leave, Lieutenant.” He nodded, voice husky and entrancing as always. George followed him sweetly to grab his winter coat for the walk. It would be frigid there and back but he would face several hardships for a moment alone with his Charles. Just as he turned to disappear in his cabin, Charles took him by the collar and dragged him inside, closing the door behind them both. The Englishman attempted to protest until he was silenced with Des Voeux’s soft lips, he quickly melted, feeling his legs nearly turn to pudding beneath him.

“ _La maison est avec toi_ ,” Charles rasped in his ear, placing warm kisses along his jaw. His heart hammered in his chest, how he yearned for a moment like this, to be at the mercy of his soulmate, “ _Je t’aime, George. Je t’aime beaucoup_.”

Many would say that Des Voeux was a sarcastic and self-interested creature, but only George really knew this side of him. The one that he loved the most.

“ _J-je t'aime de tout mon coeur_!” He stammered, clinging to the Frenchman and reciprocating his affections. They only had moments in such a large ship but he saved every inch of skin he could grace with his lips and every affection he could whisper to his Charles. He was right, god he was always right. Home was with him after all.

~

Later, they walked together in silence, hands laced together as they approached the frozen beacon of _Erebus_. In that moment George Hodgson had truly never left so loved.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -home is with you   
> -I love you, I love you so much   
> -I love you with all my heart


End file.
